City of Fire
by Ariada
Summary: Helen Morning's life has dwindled to a halt, until she finds herself transported to Cittanuova, the Talian version of Naples. Moving through the 16th century streets, she soon realises that this world may be harsher than the one she has left.
1. One or Two Ships

**Helen Morning, a twenty-first century London teenager and history enthusiast, is grieving for her best friend who has recently died an unexpected death. Late one night, she goes to bed and finds herself waking up in the sixteenth century in Cittanuova, the Talian City of Fire, which bears an uncanny resemblance to Naples in our world. The city, southernmost of the twelve Talian city states, is ruled by the only family worse than the di Chimici – the Niandoris; namely, the elected but wildly corrupt, Duke Alvise Niandori. Helen is soon caught up in deadly political intrigue as her life becomes entwined with those of the young Prince Doriano and his father's ward, Vittoria, who is linked inextricably to the Stravaganti. Torn between her lonely, mundane London life and the adventure, friendship and love she finds in Talia, Helen has some important choices to make. And all the while, the great volcano is simmering treacherously on the horizon.**

**Links to the books: This story takes place a short while after the events of the latest book at the time of writing, _City of Ships_. Cittanuova is a long way from the other cities and I am going to create a lot of my own characters, but you can expect most of the others to appear at some point, and some to feature quite highly. **

**Historical note: I should point out now that I know very little about Naples, both in our time and in the sixteenth century, but I will do some research so as not to get it too badly wrong. Expect it to be largely inaccurate though. I have, however, been to Sorrento, which is a smaller city close to Naples, so at least I have visited the area. I'll probably add in a small historical note in each chapter to explain my most major deviations from actual history.**

**I'd like to clarify now that Naples was actually the Kingdom of Naples from the thirteenth to nineteenth century. I think the King of Naples when this was set (1580) was Philip I, and it was part of the Spanish Empire. Instead of that, I've gone with as much information on Cittanuova as I can get from Mary Hoffman's website (e.g. the duke of Naples=elected=Duke Alvise, Vesuvius=Ignis, Pompeii=Perseum). But I've basically made it all up. The basic setting I'll be using in Cittanuova is modelled on the Palazzo Real/Piazza del Plebiscito area, which wasn't actually built until a couple of centuries later; however, I think the 16th century buildings were kind of on the same site. Also, the volcano Vesuvius did not erupt between the eleventh and seventeenth centuries, and Pompeii was not discovered until the 1590s – but never mind that. It is an alternative world, and I shall be taking some artistic liberties.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

Helen shut her book with the rest of the class as they dragged their bags from under the desks. She looked up at the classroom clock, which signalled that it was lunch time, and then at her watch, which also did. Of course. As she stood up Ms Tonder called out hopefully over the scuffling chairs, "For homework, read pages 31-35 of your textbook and make a table of the key points, please." Helen made an obliging mental note whilst already half-acknowledging that she would forget. Most of the class were already through the door and she joined them, glad to be outside and away from the empty chair.

She felt a yawn creep over her and tried to stifle it with her hand, not that anyone cared. One of the joys of being a teenager was everyone's dull acceptance of being constantly tired, though it wasn't something that Helen was used to. She didn't like going to bed these days. It brought thoughts into her mind that were never far away, had not been far away for several months now; thoughts about Amber Peters. Not that Helen was scared, she knew that what happened with Amber wouldn't happen with her, but it was hard to get her best friend out of her head when she turned off the light. Her late best friend. She was always late. Helen looked at her watch again. It was still lunch time. Of course.

She followed the others into the dinner hall and sat down five minutes later with some pizza and an apple, not feeling particularly hungry. She took a chair at a table with some of the girls who had also just come out of Ms Tonder's Geography class and politely listened to their conversation without much interest.

She had always got on reasonably well with the other students at Parkers Road Community College, but they had never been very close. Although she and Amber had hardly been outcasts and had attended a fair few social events, for the most part Helen and the others did not have anything that really interested them in common. She had only ever been close to Amber and that had been enough for her, but now, drifting impersonally into groups of classmates who accepted her quietly, she wasn't just alone. She was intolerably bored.

It was boring to feel so subdued. Helen and Amber had been loud together. Loud and bold and funny and clever and, she had a good idea, fairly annoying to boot. She still had doodles covering her pencil case, and none of them were hers. Drawing anything, even the silly faces that were - had been - Amber's doodling speciality, was a bit beyond Helen. She could do numbers, words and facts and she could do them very well indeed. Amber could too, of course, almost as well and always at the last possible moment. She could do art too, and drama and one day she was going to learn to play the guitar. Except that she wasn't, not any more.

"Party, Helen. Next Saturday, yes?" She jumped and looked round as the chair beside her was unexpectedly but decisively filled. The owner of the chair-occupying backside in question was a girl who had been to the same primary school as Helen and Amber. Zoë Tinsley was a small girl with exceptionally long eyelashes and very short hair, and someone who deserved better than to be referred to as a chair-occupying backside. Helen was very grateful for Zoë; she was genuinely likeable and fun and quite insistent that the dead girl's friend would not mope her last year of school away. There wasn't long left here now. After she had finished her A levels, most of the year group would head off to into jobs or universities and life, in a sense, could start over again. Parkers Road was small and empty and Helen was weary of it -sad, useless and sick of life but terrified, nonetheless, at its terminal transience, every time she lay down to sleep.

"Helen?"

"Oh, erm," she brought her attention back to the group. They were used to her being distant, but not silent. She had never had it in her to be silent for long. Helen was well-known in the school for being quite a 'Lisa Simpson' when it came to the megaphone. She had an unusually developed political spirit for a seventeen-year-old and, with Amber's help, had started up an Amnesty International society at the school, as well as an environmental concern committee. Not that it was good for anything - Parkers Road Community College was unusually small for a London comprehensive. She was looking forward to voting for the first time in the next election though, and realised as she thought it that Amber never would. Disgusted by her pitiful thought-track, she answered Zoë .

"Yeah, sounds great. Where?"

"My place, seven o'clock," she smiled and leaned around Helen to tap her friend Samantha on the shoulder.

The rest of lunch dragged on slowly with some mundane conversation about a television show she had heard of but never watched.

It started raining halfway through fourth lesson which made the trigonometry practice feel even more monotonous and droned on all through German so loudly that they could barely hear the tape. When she finally got home at about four o'clock she was soaked through, despite having used her little blue umbrella that fitted so neatly into her school bag. It had white and grey stars decorating the surface, but from a distance just looked speckled. She tried not to remember who had bought it for her. Leaving the speckled umbrella on the radiator, she dripped quietly into the living room and found her dad and sister playing a game of snap with her old deck of cards. He had taken the day off work to look after Kate, who had remained at home complaining of a cold, although in fairness to the seven year-old she had not complained much. Sometimes Helen thought that her little sister was tougher than she was. She joined in for a couple of hands and then spent the next couple of hours reading a book by the same author who had written the set text for her English coursework. Victorian authors were all pretty much as miserable as each other, in her opinion, though, Thomas Hardy would come out top in that respect.

They ate earlier than usual, as soon as the girls' mother Felicity was home from the office, so that Kate could go to bed.

"Is your book any good?" Felicity asked her over pasta and garlic bread and Helen replied wearily, "They all die." Her parents exchanged anxious looks and suddenly it seemed like a stupid thing to have said. It was just a dark and dull read, was all she had been trying to say.

She spent the rest of the evening mindlessly surfing the internet, and ended up on Wikipedia as she so often did. But the little clock in the corner of the screen was winking accusingly at her, and so at last she swivelled out off her computer chair, yawning and ordering the last page to print. She stumbled into the bathroom with worn-out eyes. She really had to stop staying up this late on a school night. It wasn't affecting her grades yet, but there was something demoralizing about waking up not just sleepy but tired. Tonight she had been reading about the early life of Henry VIII's second wife. History was her intense interest, politics seeming more of a duty to her mind, though she wasn't actually sure why she liked it so much. She had a very modern outlook on life, but she did have a kind of fascination with the way the world had once been and the people who had lived there then.

She brushed her teeth and applied about three different face washes to her skin, hazel eyes blinking back at her. That was when she remembered that she had not even started Ms Tonder's geography homework, but never mind that now. She dragged a comb through her long, black hair, which immediately lost some of its curl and became thicker and a little frizzier. No matter, as she was just going to bed. Knowing that the rest of her family were already asleep, she tiptoed out of the bathroom and pushed open her bedroom door quietly. The door had a key ring blue tacked onto it.

"Name: Helen," it said, "Gender: female. Origin: Greek. Meaning: ray of light." Followed by some vague, complimentary description about girls named Helen that no-one would disagree with about themselves. It was all rubbish really, it was only on her door because it had always been there, ever since she was ten and Amber had brought it back from York for her. The only bit that really interested her was the 'origin'. 'Greek' it said, and she knew who it was referring to. Helen of Troy, that was the original Helen. The first of note, at least, and it wasn't a person she would have elected as her own namesake. The woman whose fickle vanity had led to the deaths of hundreds in the Trojan wars; the face that sailed a thousand ships, she'd heard. That beautiful, bloodstained bride. It was probably unfair, and most probably very untrue. As a woman she should think better of Helen, since some accounts claimed she had been kidnapped anyhow.

A thousand ships. She took a quick glance in the mirror as she pulled the duvet back from her bed. She had pretty eyes, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw. When framed by her, sometimes tamed, mass of dark hair she looked quite striking if not classically beautiful, but it satisfied her and her teenage vanity. She could get away with one or two ships at least.

She sighed and lay back in bed, her thoughts turning automatically to Amber, who had done the same one month ago, for the very last time. The seventeenth of September, then. A couple of tears leaked from her scrunched up eyes and she turned over in frustration. She opened the draw of her bedside table and brought out her last present to her best friend. It was a very small music box that sat comfortably in her palm.

In the summer, Helen and her family had visited Naples and she had bought a similar box as a gift for Amber, with an inlaid wooden pattern on the lid. The box she was holding now, however, was from a second-hand shop back home. The original had been lost somewhere between the market and the girls' hotel room in Naples and so a disappointed Helen had gone to visit her friend gift-less, until she passed by a shop window and saw a little music box that was almost identical. She bought it at once, arrived at Amber's and explained the situation to her bemused friend who nonetheless admired the present.

But now it was Helen's again. It had been returned to her by Amber's grief stricken parents in a box of things they thought she 'might like to have', which had included notebooks they had scribbled in, toys they had played with as children and a variety of photographs that showed children of five sitting on swings in a play park, right up to sixteen year olds with fake moustaches drawn on their faces with felt tip pens. They had been sponsored to speak French for a day at school.

She turned the key at the back of the box and it started to play its tune. Even that sounded the same as the first box. As it twinkled on, Helen felt her eyes closing on memories of the bay at Naples; a recent but happier time.

The next thing she knew, she was sitting up on a cobbled stone floor in the light autumn sunshine. She looked around wildly; she appeared to be in a very small alleyway. Confused, she stood up and ran a hand along the rough stone wall, realising as she did so that she was still holding the little music box. She gripped it more tightly. The sound of passers-by reached her ears and she followed it into a wider and busy street, where people dressed like Shakespearean actors bustled by, talking loudly and carrying bundles and baskets. What a strange dream, Helen told herself, she really must stop web browsing this late into the night.

A horse and carriage trundled passed, revealing behind it the view of a harbour just a few metres away, where one or two ships came and went through a small forest of white sails and, towering behind them, was a sight she recognised: the brooding hulk of Mount Vesuvius dominated the skyline.

"I've really done it this time," she muttered to herself.

**I'm new here, by the way, not sure how long you're used to waiting for next chapters but I'll do my best! Feedback would be really appreciated. **


	2. Sewing a Sunset

**So sorry this took so long! Definitely won't be such a big gap between updates in future. I was really busy last term, and I wanted to do a bit more research and work through the plot before I got into my new characters.**

**Historical note: Naples was the second largest city in Europe during this time period (after Paris), and I'm trying to reflect that in Cittanuova. It was also one of the centres of Renaissance Humanism, which made it very intellectually important. **

Vittoria twirled the needle, its thin red thread looping around her fingers. There was a callus on one of them and it rubbed uglily against her thumb every time she made a stitch. But Vittoria stitched anyway, with the kind of passion and focus that was only ever born of boredom. She looked up from the embroidered evening sky on her lap, and out at the blue morning sky through her window. The picture was not turning out right. The day, however, was glorious.

In fact, she almost hated sewing. Witless young women and fat old dames – those with too much flush in their cheeks but not enough sparkle in their eyes – were the ones who sat sewing all day. It was not for Vittoria, who was – as it was remarked occasionally in the high, dry tones of those suggesting that the issue was none of their concern – a veritable firework.

The embroidery was a shame. It was... the wrong medium somehow. You couldn't sew a sunset, there was a fluidity in the golden pink clouds that could never be captured by stitches. She slid the needle into the fabric for safekeeping and threw the sewing frame down beside her. It had been worth a try. Vittoria loved the sky.

And, for some reason, she almost loved sewing. Then again, whatever her station now, her grandmother had been a seamstress. There was something very tranquil about sewing; it was solitary, calming, methodical - a much-needed tonic for a flighty, explosive spirit. And it was creative too, just like her graphite sketches of the smoky mountain, or the charcoal faces she was in the habit of drawing around the fireplace when she had a moment alone. Creation was beautiful.

Whoever had built Cittanuova had clearly understood that. Large colonnades ran rings around important buildings, and the roofs of the central town were all intricately tiled. From Vittoria's window there could be seen a sea of neatly tiled red roofs, but they stood like islands against the meandering streets of the old, inner city. If you looked further, the neat red roofs gave way to rougher tiles as the city sprawled outwards, ever developing, ever expanding, ever spreading its commercial life-blood further from the beautiful blue bay. Vittoria could see the bay from her window too.

Right now, she could see preparations underway. People bustled with baskets and carts and rolled-up banners in the courtyard below, and shouts carried up to the slight opening in her window.

"To the left."

"I could only get it in green."

"No, _my_ left!"

"Perhaps we could paint it?"

_Knock knock_

A loud, assertive knock sounded at her door and Vittoria spun around on her window seat. "Yes," she called out, "you may enter." She had a feeling that a knock that assertive would be entering anyway.

The door opened and proved Vittoria right. A tall man strode in. He had long brown hair, streaked these days with grey, and walked with a silver cane, even though she was sure he didn't need it.

Duke Alvise smiled politely at her. "Good morning, Vittoria."

She had stood up quickly when he entered, and now took a few steps forward. She wasn't afraid of the duke, but often felt awkward when she was around him. Unlike most people, she didn't bow or curtsey. She didn't kiss his hand. She had grown up on a par with Doriano, after all. Doriano didn't call Duke Alvise 'your grace' or 'my lord', and so nor did Vittoria. But, unlike Doriano, she didn't call him 'father' either. So she said rather bluntly, "good morning."

The cane tapped across the floor a few times as he made his way to her armchairs. He sat down on one and gestured for her to join him. "I've just returned from Perseum," he explained, putting a hand into his coat.

Vittoria was genuinely interested. She'd been hearing for months about the strange painted ceramics that had been unearthed near to the base of the volcano. Now, signs of ancient buildings were being discovered and scholars the city over were excitedly grapping trowels and proclaiming the words, "a settlement from the Reman Empire, perfectly preserved!" Duke Alvise had visited several times, and she could tell that his interest wasn't feigned either.

His hand returned from his coat pocket holding a fragment of broken stone. "I had this chipped off a wall," he told her. She turned the stone over in her hands, it was beautifully painted on the smoothest side. She looked closely and tried to imagine the brush strokes, but whatever the artisanship had been, it had faded into time. All she could make out were faint colours now.

"We're very lucky to have found it," she said, handing the stone back. "Who was it who did find the place? I never heard."

Duke Alvise shook his head. "I'm afraid it doesn't matter. They've had to be banished."

"Oh. Why?"

He grimaced. "Artefact theft." She watched as he slipped the stone back into his pocket. "It has to be stopped or people will run wild. I'm restricting access to the site."

"Is that really necessary?" she asked. "I mean, I'd love to go there."

Duke Alvise stood up. "I am taking Doriano tomorrow. I can take you soon." He wandered over to the window and stared out for a minute, watching the evidence of concentrated preparation as she had just done. "You should be helping prepare the city for the festivities, somehow." It took a lot to distract Alvise Niandori from his preparations. A historical goldmine could provide this distraction only temporarily. "The visiting dignitaries will start to arrive next week."

"I'd love to help." Vittoria blurted out, "I never have anything to do." She hadn't meant to say it like that, she sounded like a spoilt child. He ignored her, his eyes falling instead on the discarded embroidery. "It's no good," she said quickly, "I gave up on it."

"I try not to give up on things," said the duke lightly, though Vittoria thought for a second she detected something darker behind it. Then she was being handed her needle-work. "You always had the makings of an artistic girl – your father's blood, I suppose."

Vittoria tensed, but he didn't elaborate. She knew what he was referring to, of course. Her father had been a craftsman, up until his death almost eleven years ago. She had only been six at the time, but could still remember the small house by the waterfront, its cluttered workshop, and the rows upon rows of beautiful wooden music boxes. She always enjoyed talking about her father, but he was rarely mentioned these days.

"Do you think it's worth it, for me?" she asked. The duke had always been rather quiet on the subject of Vittoria's future. Even now she wasn't very sure what it was. Probably a marriage to some noble in another city state; perhaps it had even been in his mind when he'd arranged this month's celebrations. The Festa della Montagna Affumicato was an annual Cittanuovian celebration in early autumn, but this year Alvise had brought a dose of grandeur to his plans.

He glanced out the window again. "Hmm?" he murmured. Vittoria didn't pursue it. Duke Alvise wasn't lying, he really didn't give up on things, not for a second; he didn't get distracted from what really mattered. And that wasn't Vittoria. It was the Festa della Montagna Affumicato.

Alvise looked at her properly again. "I will send someone to see you about a role in the celebrations. You should be busy soon. And I'll take you to see Perseum soon, it really is wonderfully interesting." He straightened his coat and headed for the door. "Goodbye Vittoria. I'm... pleased with you."

"Goodbye." She inclined her head and he nodded to her, then left the room. His ability to billow through any doorway had always amazed her. That had been unusual though. Duke Alvise was a very articulate man, but just then he had sounded stilted, like he was thinking very hard. If he was thinking hard about something that didn't involve Perseum or the Festa della Montagna Affumicato, then it must be important. He had even expressed his feelings. That was stranger still. In her hands was the sewing that he'd handed back to her, which she threw it onto the armchair he had vacated, kicking at its wooden leg.

She didn't dislike her guardian as such, but there was no affection there. There never had been. Perhaps she resented him. Perhaps she hated him. No, surely it was just distance. Careless distance, and the knowledge that he had an intolerable power over her.

Vittoria had been living in the Palazzo Reale since she was six, although why Duke Alvise had decided to adopt her was anyone's guess. She didn't know what would have happened otherwise; she could only ever remember having a father, no other relations to speak of. So in a way Vittoria was grateful. And yet she had, technically speaking, very little freedom. She had been taught well enough not to be an embarrassment but, considering the flourishing educational movements Cittanuova was awash with, had only been offered a meagre education. Doriano, the Duke's only child, had practically been fighting tutors off until recent years, when he had settled down with an academic of his choice for a last bout of scholarly attention. And then there were the endless strings of maids to dress her, and do and redo her hair until any chance of getting out in the day was long gone. Not that she had anything to do, should she have the chance to freely wander. Since her father died, she had never been given a present that wasn't a dress. She wasn't allowed out of the palazzo without permission, and then a guard.

That was technically speaking. _Practically_ speaking, Vittoria was unimportant. Curious speculation about her adoption had long since ceased and, as a female non-relation to a ducal title that was not hereditary in any case, her future held little interest for any of the political busybodies. She was, to most observers, a useless, pointless little rich girl. So people took their eyes of Vittoria. They didn't realise that taking your eyes off Vittoria was not a good idea - at least, not if you wanted to find her where you left her.

Her maids must be having a tea break. After all, she was sitting quietly, sewing by the window. Right now. She opened one of the elegant cupboards and thrust her arm in, rummaging around until she found a thin cotton sack. She tipped the contents onto the floor and smiled to herself. Well, her sewing had at least come on since these rags were made.

**Hope you liked the update. I'll be quicker with the next one, I promise!**


	3. Fives and Salamanders

**Well, I did promise a quicker update! **

**As you can tell, I got quite into the Corteo Cards - they're in the books and detailed on Hoffman's website. I would apologise, but it was a lot of fun :)**

"Do you think we'll see a dragon today?"

"I think that's very unlikely."

Arianna pouted at him. "We _might_ do. They say they live in the hills." She lay back on the bed and stretched out her arms. They were both aching from yesterday's journey. "I'd love to see a dragon," she said dreamily, staring at the ceiling.

"Well it would brighten things up," Luciano agreed. "I'm getting sick of seeing nothing but the inside of that carriage all day."

"You can see me." Arianna had her eyes lightly closed, and her mouth was twisting up at the corners. She was teasing him, but he smiled. Yes, he could see Arianna. He was actually treasuring the journey for that reason; it was the first lengthy stretch of time they had spent alone together for longer than he cared to dwell on. In fact, it was the first time they'd ever been properly left alone. No Rodolfo, no Silvia, no Doctor Dethridge or Aunt Leonora – they were all remaining at home in the lagoon. Yet here was the Duchessa of Bellezza and her fiancé, accompanied only by her maids and a small entourage, getting ready to leave the Bellezzan embassy in Romula to travel even further south. The thought of it was actually quite terrifying.

Instead, he focussed on dragons. Arianna's face if she did manage to see one would be a treat. He could imagine her eyes widening, and her fingers almost curling into a ghost of the hand of fortune, a movement she had long since trained herself to refrain from. She would whisper 'dia' with her mind.

Luciano, however, couldn't bring himself to hope for that. _Dragons_... really? He shouldn't be surprised. Since he'd come to Talia, Luciano had effectively worked as a magician's apprentice, ridden a flying horse and helped telepathically move a swamp through the air. But there was something still inside him that rebelled at the thought of bringing the two categories of 'dragons' and 'reality' together.

He lay down on the bed beside his fiancée and kissed her on the smiling lips. She opened her eyes again and her smile widened. "And I can see you," she finished, running a hand through his hair.

They were both on Arianna's bed in the Duchessa's suite at the embassy. Luciano had spent the night in an adjoining chamber. Until their marriage, that was the way it had to work. Sixteen century values were something that he had come to an understanding with since his immergence in Talia. Maintaining reputations was of vital importance, especially for public figures like Arianna. Today, however, they had the morning to be together in private. Later they would be paying Prince Stefano of Romula a short visit, although he was to travel to Cittanuova also, and was planned to arrive shortly after the Bellezzans. They would be on the road again by the time the afternoon had gotten underway, and were enjoying their comfort while they had the chance.

Despite it being a ducal party, they had stayed in relatively few embassies during their journey. The thinking behind this, and it was good thinking, was to not enter any di Chimici cities due to their ruler's relentless campaign for Luciano's blood. Staying at inns and expensive boarding houses along the road had nevertheless been a pain.

"I still think we could have gone into Remora," he voiced out loud. Arianna, who had not been following his thought track, looked puzzled for a moment and then caught up.

"Don't be ridiculous, that place is the second largest di Chimici powerhold."

"Gaetano's there at the moment," Luciano persisted. "Besides, it doesn't look too impressive for the Duchessa of Bellezza to skulk around, too afraid to enter another city."

"We aren't afraid," she told him hotly. "It's just sensible, for now. When you're the Duke you'll have political immunity and this won't be such a problem anymore." She sat up and nudged him with her elbow. "Besides, Gaetano isn't even in power until his uncle dies. We don't want to go causing more trouble between him and his brother, it's not fair."

It was an argument he always lost, mainly because he wholeheartedly agreed with Arianna. But she hadn't complained once about the situation they'd found themselves in on the journey, and it made him feel less guilty somehow if he did. "I'd have liked to have seen them though."

"Gaetano and Francesca will be arriving in Cittanuova a couple of days after Stefano. They're only just behind us," she replied, but now she sounded excited again, rather than scolding. "Oh, you're right, it will be good to see them!"

Talk of their old friends began in earnest and went on for quite some time, until Arianna started. "I think the day's getting on. We should get ready to – "

"Wait a minute," Luciano interrupted her. "Before we go I'm going to try the cards again. It's more peaceful here." She nodded and he went to get the deck of battered, well-used Corteo cards. It was Rodolfo's spare deck, and he had given it to his apprentice a few weeks ago in an attempt to begin his training in divination.

"I'm going to learn how to tell the future?" Luciano had asked keenly. Rodolfo rubbed his eyes.

"Corteo cards do not tell the future, Luciano," he had explained, "they suggest patterns, alert you to the directions that destiny may move in, help you to reorder the way you see things. Now, I want you to close your eyes..."

"I'm going to learn how to tell the future!" Luciano had exclaimed to Arianna when he next saw her. But he had taken Rodolfo's words to heart, and endeavoured to understand the subtleties of the cards. Reading them, he was told by both Rodolfo and Dethridge, was a difficult and precise skill, which took many years to learn. Certainly, Luciano was yet to make any real progress.

His last attempt had provided nothing even vaguely useful. Arianna, who took a lively, and often active, interest in all things Stravagante, had watched in an inn room outside Remora as he dealt the thirteen cards out, and ended up with the Five of Salamanders in the centre.

She had tilted her head to one side and asked, "why are there two sevens and two tens?" But he had found no answer. Their conclusion, which Arianna seemed to have a lot of confidence in, was that Luciano was not very good at this.

Nevertheless, he was determined to keep trying. And today, as he sat cross-legged on the floor with Arianna peering over his shoulder, he felt hopeful; the first card he dealt was the King of Salamanders, in the twelve o'clock position. That was a sensible start - they were going to the City of Fire after all, and he'd be surprised if that didn't represent Duke Alvise. He proceeded to lay out the cards in a neat circle, dealing anti-clockwise. The next card was the Five of Salamanders – "that again!" said Arianna, but Luciano ignored her, concentrating. The next was the Prince of Salamanders and then the Sword, in what Luciano thought of as the 'quarter to' position. He felt his teeth dig into his lip as he turned over the next card. Something didn't look good about this. It was the Princess of Salamanders.

Arianna whistled. "That's a lot of salamanders." This time Luciano nodded, but continued to deal in silence. The Five of Fishes came next, and then the Lovers completed the first half of the circle, followed by the Five of Birds. He paused, but Arianna said nothing this time. Her breathing had gone shallow with anticipation. Another Greater Trump card followed, the Knight, and then another, the Moving Stars. Three quarters of the circle complete, he paused again. He could see a kind of symmetry developing. The last two cards were the Spring Maiden and then, they both murmured it as he turned it over, the Five of Serpents. Finally, he placed a card in the centre and completed the format. It was, _unusually_, he thought, the Lightning.

They both stared at the pattern for a moment, and then Arianna broke the silence. "What does the Lightning mean?"

"I think," Luciano screwed up his brow with the effort of remembering. "I think it's an accident, or something. And it can mean fire, and danger." He touched the King of Salamanders lightly with his finger. Fire dominated the reading. Then he pointed to the Sword, where it sat between the Prince and Princess of Salamanders. "The Sword does mean danger, I know that. And they must be Prince Doriano and the duke's ward, Vittoria." The Niandori family had been explained to the both of them by a patient Silvia before they left Bellezza, however no-one seemed to know much about any of them beyond their official stations. It had been a long time since Cittanuova had been visited by the Bellezzans.

"You think they might be in danger?" asked Arianna.

"That or they _are_ danger. And look, they line up perfectly with the Spring Maiden and the Knight, who are separated by the Moving Stars."

Arianna's face contorted as she struggled not to be out of her depth. "The Moving Stars?"

"A journey, a sign of destiny or great change," he recited. "They can also represent the Stellata." Remora's famous race had been run a couple of months ago, and the Water-Carrier had won. The Water-Carrier's city of allegiance was Classe, so that was unlikely to have anything to do with his reading. "Although," he admitted, "I don't know who the Spring Maiden or the Knight might be."

"Could they be us? I mean, if the stars are a journey then it looks like we qualify," she suggested, but he was shaking his head before she finished.

"No, you're always the Princess of Fishes." He remembered for a second a slightly drunken Dethridge explaining a particularly tricky reading to him after Georgia had won the Stellata. "But I think the Knight was Cesare once - these things always change, I suppose." They both thought for a moment in agreement. Cesare was, to the best of their knowledge, safe in the city of Padavia.

"Do you see the symmetry?" he asked her. "These number cards to either side of the King and the Lovers," the two picture cards sat on opposing ends of the circle, "and then these cards that we've talked about, they mirror each other so well. But why should all the number cards be fives?"

"Fives," Arianna whispered. "Oh my, the Lightning too, look!"

At a loss for what she meant, he stared at it. Then he saw. True enough, the yellow-blue line zigzagged four times as it wound up the card, depicting a flash of lightning. The four zigzags split it into five sections.

They looked at each other for a second. "I'm going to speak to Rodolfo," Luciano decided.

**I appreciate reviews :)**


	4. A City so Vivid

**I'm sorry that this chapter is so short. I've been writing long intros for characters to help me get into the story, but my plan is to write it in shorter sections from constantly changing points of view - basically, in Hoffman's style. As I get a bit further into the story I'll start putting short sections, like this one, together to make decent sized chapters. But as I'm still starting out, I figured I might as well post this, since it's written anyway.**

It was the most vivid dream that Helen had ever experienced. All dreams felt real when you had them, but this was something different. She was certain she'd never felt so alert, so alive or so fully aware that what she saw was only a product of her tired imagination. The sun was bright, the floor was hard under her feet and the sounds of children playing nearby reached her ears with a very undreamlike clarity.

She stood immobile for a moment, taking in the glorious view. The last couple of dreary months she'd spend in London had made her forget just how beautiful Naples had been. Afraid of waking herself up, she took some tentative steps forwards, crossing the road and approaching the water front. Looking past the docking ships and tiny fishing boats, the sea stretched out in front of her like infinity itself. Suddenly, what she wanted to do was run. Run into the centre of the city and collapse to her knees in the piazza, or else run along the bay until she left the city behind, run up the side of the volcano until the whole country was laid bare way beneath her. Run until she could run no more.

But she didn't. Instead, she sat down on a crate near the water's edge and tried to think. You didn't _do_ things in dreams. Things just happened and carried you along. After all, what was the point of trying to work your way through a world you knew wasn't even real? And yet the idea of just sitting here on her crate until this historic Naples faded away wasn't a pleasant one. She felt amazingly free and uninhibited; after all, she had left all her baggage in London. Wasn't this her paradise? A city so much like the one she had loved last summer, a city living in a long gone age, a city so vivid she could smell the disgusting water in the harbour. Who cared if she was dreaming?

Kneeling down, she leant over the side of the quay. The sea was dark and grimy, but the sunlight was sparkling off it in a romantic way nonetheless. She stood up and blinked as a shape whizzed by at waist height. It was one of the children she had heard earlier, laughing as she turned back to look at her friend, tripping on a coil of rope. Helen reached her hands out instinctively and caught the girl around the middle as, carried by the trip, she hurtled towards the end of the quay.

The weight of the child pulled her down and she landed heavily on her knee, her heart racing. She trembled slightly at the feel of real adrenaline coursing through her body. Who let their children play down here on their own? Judging by the time period she was in, which she estimated at somewhere between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries, very few people would be able to swim.

The fortunate child shook Helen off her, apparently unaware of how close she had come to danger._ One more step_, she thought, looking down at the dirty water again. "Play safely, ok?" Helen said as the little girl skipped off again to rejoin her friend, rubbing her knee and feeling like an idiot as she said it. There seemed to be nothing else she could do.

People were staring at her, she noticed as she walked back across the road between the harbour and city buildings. She looked down. Her light blue pyjamas were standing out something ridiculous in the Tudor-type street. Something of the prudishness of the era was already affecting Helen, and she didn't like the way that everyone was staring at her exposed calves.

Actually, not staring; that must be outsider's paranoia settling in already. People were merely glancing at her quickly as they went past; one short look at the strange alien girl and then on with their busy lives. Only one person was genuinely staring, a girl about her age in a green dress and a red headscarf. As Helen returned the gaze, their eyes met across the busy street.


	5. Just Like his Father

**Doriano's intro gave me a lot of trouble, so I decided to centre it on dialogue in the end. Sorry if it's a bit tedious. And sorry if it's confusing, but it's kind of meant to be.**

**I'll start picking up the pace soon, I've got it all planned out properly now. :)**

**Also, I'm in Rome for the next four days. I won't be writing anything, but I will be soaking up a bit of Italian-ness.**

"And what if the eleventh member cannot decide?"

Doriano stared at his hands, thinking hard. He flipped his quill over and ran the soft tip along the stone mosaic tabletop. They were sitting outside, taking advantage of what might be some of the last autumn warmth. He had ordered a table to be placed on the ducal balcony, where they were afforded an excellent view of the piazza.

They were also discussing judicial systems, taking advantage of Doriano's free morning. It probably wouldn't have been his subject of choice, but he generally went along with whatever Signor Moretti wanted to discuss. The man had a lively mind that never failed to engage Doriano, even when his intrigue was, as was so often the case, tainted with disapproval.

Juries were not something he much cared for. "Well then it's going to remain a tie until he does," he pondered, "but if the others can make a decision, then it surely follows that he can too."

"An interesting theory, your Highness," replied Moretti mildly. "But perhaps the others were too rash?"

Feeling tedium begin to settle in, the prince shrugged. "I don't know, what does it matter?" One man, guilty or innocent, eleven others to decide on his fate; there'd be a majority one way or another, sooner or later. He traced a pattern with the quill on the tabletop.

"I am suggesting that our man feels that, without bias or rashness, no decision can be made regarding the accused, so he refuses to come to one."

"Well he can't do that," argued Doriano. "He'd get removed and replaced."

His tutor nodded. "Most probably. How about by a cat?"

Looking up from his quill at last, Doriano raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

Moretti spread his palms on the table, a sign that he was becoming theoretical. "Say it walks left for 'guilty', right for 'innocent'. Easy."

Doriano snorted. "That's just plain ridiculous," he said, getting the distinct feeling that he was being wound up somehow.

"It is?" asked his tutor innocently. "Why did we get rid of the eleventh man again?"

"Refusal to co-operate?" Doriano ventured.

"The cat co-operates, your Highness." Moretti replied in his light, almost mocking, tone that generally managed to infuriate the young prince.

"Fine." he snapped. "Inability to come to a valid decision, then."

Moretti nodded in approval. "Better," he said, "but suppose, fearing his imminent replacement by a creature of a feline persuasion, our eleventh man quickly opts for 'guilty'."

Shrugging, Doriano resorted to the monosyllabic. "Well?" he asked.

"The verdict would count."

"I suppose so."

"But is it a valid decision? Intellectually, after all, he is no better off."

His fingers twisted the quill round and round. "No, I suppose it isn't." he said eventually. "But then, none of the others are either, are they? If one man can't make a valid decision, then how can we expect the others did?"

"Exactly the opposite of what you said a moment ago, I believe, your Highness," remarked Moretti with a raised eyebrow. "If the others can," he parroted, "then it surely follows he can too."

That was what he had said. Why was it he had said it? He tried to remember. What was it he was saying now? "So what is your point exactly?" he settled for as a question.

Moretti smiled again. "Good question, your Highness. Perhaps it is not to let cats into courtrooms. Or perhaps it is that the last man, the lone man, isn't necessary the wrong man."

"Well isn't that obvious?"

"Unfortunately not."

Doriano rubbed his face. "We were talking about juries?"

"Ah, yes. Are eleven men better than one?"

"They could be more mistaken."

"But consider one man; can he be fair if he answers to no-one? If he lacks, for instance, the fear of being replaced by a cat?"

"What? I thought the cat thing was a bad thing?" he said, trying not to sound too confused. Usually, he was proud of his articulacy – an articulacy that had been honed for many years with tutors far more conventional than Misaele Moretti – but a few hours in this man's presence could reduce anyone to a state of meaningless questions. He really was quite incredible.

"Quite so, your Highness," Moretti agreed, "But is it always?"

Doriano groaned. "You're losing me," he admitted.

"Perhaps," conceded his tutor, "I seem to be pushing you a bit beyond the boundaries of rational thought." Moretti gave Doriano another of his strange smiles. "It is good for you, your Highness. But do tell me what would you give your opinion as, if I pressed you?"

He went quiet for a moment, simultaneously trying to figure out what he was supposed to be giving an opinion on, as well as what that opinion might be. "I would not hold one man back from doing the job, if he can perform it best."

"One, and only one, man, your Highness? Not an opinion tailored to the masses, if I may say so."

Doriano narrowed his eyes slightly. "Ha," he said, "I am sorry not to sound like the masses, but will be the duke of Cittanuova one day, after all."

"_Will_ be, your Highness?" Moretti asked quietly. "I was under the impression that Cittanuova ran elections."

Doriano smiled grimly. "Of course," he said... _and we win them_, he thought. The dukedom of Cittanuova was in the hands of the fifth generation of the Niandori dynasty and it wasn't going anywhere fast. His father had the Senators in his palm and the electorate was decreasing at an almost alarming rate. "Elections for one man only."

His tutor looked disappointed. "Well, your Highness, I believe our morning session is up," he said, and began to collect the various papers he had spread over the table. "But I would entreat you to consider the cat," he concluded, standing up.

Doriano waved a hand carelessly. "Good day, Signore."

He gave a stiff bow and backed away, leaving Doriano alone on the balcony and, as always, subtly confused and feeling rather like he had missed the point. As often happened with Moretti's questions, he was unsure where he stood on the issue, and unsure of whether he actually cared. But the debate was interesting so he entertained it.

His mind now felt thoroughly worn out, but his legs were protesting after their morning of sitting patiently still. He stood up and walked over to the edge of the balcony, stretching his muscles. Down in the piazza he could see decorations going up already for the Festa, and it wasn't even taking place for a month. Then again, he thought, the visiting nobles would be arriving very soon, and his father seemed to have a good deal more than usual planned for this year. Some of this had been communicated to Doriano, but he had a suspicion that some things had nevertheless been unsaid.

Down on the ground, someone spotted the prince on the balcony and a small shout went up. Doriano waved a hand in a princely fashion and the men went back to work and, it didn't escape his notice, slightly more busily than before.

From a distance he probably looked just like his father. They had the same build and the same long brown hair, although Doriano's was somewhat curlier. His face was a different shape too, as an observer would notice if they got closer, and if they had the nerve to stare Duke Alvise in the face. If they did, they would see a long, bony face that was quite unlike his handsome son's.

Wandering over to the table again, his thoughts returned to Misaele Moretti. The man was quite representative, he thought, of a lot of feeling in the city. People here liked to think, and many of them were starting to look at the world with unfixed eyes, as though there was a better one to be seen if they jiggled about just a bit, turned a little more to the left... He always felt it was good for Cittanuova. The city breathed with fiery intellect. All the same, you could let things go too far – fire could be dangerous. When he was duke, he would be keeping an eye on things. Just like his father.


	6. In the Hills

**Wow, Rome was amazing! Wishing a little bit that I'd chosen the City of Dragons instead as I could make it a lot more accurate to the place. But I've planned this story out now, even if I have totally made Cittanuova up, and I'm quite liking the way it's going. Really glad to read in the reviews that other people are too, hope I can keep it up. :)**

It wasn't until early evening that Luciano finally got in touch with Rodolfo. It was impossible to set up a proper arrangement of mirrors in their luxurious but inescapably small carriage, so Arianna watched as he dusted off the small bronze hand mirror. She was very lucky, she thought to herself as Luciano shut his eyes in concentration, to be so closely involved with the Stravaganti. The idea of what it would be like trying to rule Bellezza without the brotherhood's powerful network of communication and protection was not an appealing one.

A second later, her father's face appeared in the mirror, touched with affection and a little concern. "Good evening," he said to the young couple. He spoke aloud, Arianna noticed with appreciation, to include her in the discussion. Their way of communicating telepathically through the mirrors was one that, as a non-Stravagante, she had difficulty with. It was hard sometimes not to feel a little left out, however much she relied on the Stravanganti's powers.

"We wanted to get in touch with you earlier," Luciano apologised, "but we had to hurry to meet Prince Stefano, and then we had a quick tour of Romula, and then Arianna wouldn't stop looking out of the window until we were hours outside the city."

"Why was that?" Rodolfo asked, amused and alarmed.

"She wanted to see a dragon," he said. Arianna glared at him.

"And did you?"

"No," she replied with a trace of disappointment.

"Such a shame. But I don't believe they're uncommon. Perhaps on the way back?" He smiled at her with fatherly affection, and she couldn't help but feeling for a second like a stupid child. "Anyway," he continued, "and perhaps more importantly, how did you find Prince Stefano?"

"He seemed all right," said Luciano neutrally, "I reckon he's getting on a bit but the city's doing well."

Arianna nodded keenly. "We loved it," she agreed. Romula was built on seven hills, very unlike the flat lagoon, and sported fragrant foliage even at this time of the year. There were great tracts of it on which there still stood the red brick remains of Ancient Reman buildings, and these areas remained undeveloped. The rest of the city, however, was developing busily as its rich aristocrats expanded their palazzos and hoards of young artists made names for themselves. Princess Carolina, Stefano's wife, was a very religious woman and under her influence new churches were going up left, right and centre. The skyline, as could be marvellously appreciated from any of the hills, was dominated by their domes; most ostentatious of all, the unfinished Basilica di San Pietro.

Luciano was very interested in that. "In my world," he had told her as they left the city gates, "Romula, or rather _Rome_, is the capital of Talia – I mean, _Italy_." The phrase gave rise to a small twinge of pain in Arianna's chest. _In _my_ world _– he almost never spoke that like any more, but sometimes it seemed instinctive. Nonetheless, Arianna had nodded; he had explained this before. "Which means," he continued, "that the seat of the Pope is in Rome, not Remora, and the top cathedral is Saint Peter's. I wasn't sure it would even exist here. And it's not only that," he had continued after a moment, apparently oblivious to Arianna's struggling powers of comprehension, "there's all the Roman ruins – _Reman_ ruins – that we saw. Romula was never the capital of the empire like Rome was, so you'd expect them all to be in Remora."

Arianna had shrugged. "Well, the city existed in Ancient Reman times. They might not have been as important as the buildings in Remora, but that didn't stop them surviving better."

"I'm surprised they built the Colosseum here though, not in the capital."

"The Dragorena?" she had asked, remembering his strange word for the amphitheatre. "But they fought dragons there. Where else could they have built it?"

He gave a sigh, but it was an amused one. "Well, that would have made _Gladiator_ quite a different film."

Sometimes it was hard to understand Luciano when he spoke of his old world. When it suited his mood, and it wasn't too painful for him to speak of, she loved hearing about the life he had left behind – it was not only fascinating, but it gave her access to some intrinsic part of him that was impossible to capture. For she saw sometimes that there was a distance between them, a gap of four hundred years, eight hundred miles and a strange reality-shift that her Talian mind found it hard to bridge. Even now, when they had never been closer or Luciano more accustomed to Talia, it stood as an uncrossable distance between them. She had become, therefore, in the habit of concealing her confusion when words such as 'film' snuck their way into Luciano's vocabulary, as they did with increasing rarity.

Back in the present, Rodolfo was nodding. "I do wonder what he's going to do about an heir," he said, and they all thought for a moment. In Romula, successors were appointed by the ruling prince prior to his death, rather than just passing onto the eldest son. In reality, however, it made little difference, as they were always chosen from the family, and always male. But Stefano had only daughters and he was, as Luciano put it, getting on a bit.

"How were the principessas?" Rodolfo asked. "I haven't seen them since the family last visited Bellezza, and that was over ten years ago. They were only children then."

"The eldest is rather loud and bossy," said Luciano, "though I think her interests are good. You should have seen her face when Fabrizio di Chimici was mentioned! The youngest didn't seem to understand so much, she was a bit..." he hesitated, the word 'simple' hanging in the air, "she was very kind," he concluded at last. "And Princess Prospera –"

"Is the most beautiful person I've ever seen." Arianna finished for him.

"And she certainly knows it," muttered Luciano.

Arianna turned her violet eyes on him. "You didn't think she was pretty?" she asked innocently.

"Don't answer that, Luciano," said Rodolfo worriedly from the mirror.

"If she ever smiled, then yes, perhaps," he said. "But she was very glad, I think, that Arianna always wears a mask."

She wasn't wearing it now, though. She never did in private. The mask had proved useful on a number of occasions but she still hated it in principle. It was a law that she had sworn she would abolish when she became Duchessa. However, like so many things she had sworn, she had not followed true. Why was that? She didn't want to think on it now. "Not for long," she told her fiancé quietly. He smiled.

"But why was it that you wanted to get in touch with me earlier?" asked her father, oblivious, on his side of the mirror, to atmosphere between them. "Is everything ok?"

The two of them shuffled around for a minute as Luciano searched for a scrap of paper. Before they had left Arianna's room in the embassy he had copied down his Corteo Card reading. Now he held it up to the mirror. "I did a reading this morning, and I came up with this," he said, "I know I'm not very good yet," Arianna carefully avoided meeting Rodolfo's eye, "but we think it must mean something."

Rodolfo stared at the card pattern for a moment and then nodded. He pulled a piece of parchment towards him and scratched out the arrangement with a black quill. "I think you are right," he said finally. "I will speak to Doctor Dethridge about it. Did you have any ideas?"

Luciano explained their theories. Now they were voiced again, they sounded very patchy and somewhat lacking. "It looks like danger though," Arianna put in as he finished, "and it looks like Cittanuova."

"It does," Rodolfo agreed. "I want you both to keep your eyes keen. And I'm going to contact Signor Germano too." The Cittanuovan Stravagante had been explained to the both of them before they'd left Bellezza. Rodolfo's main description had stuck in her mind: "eccentric," he had said, "and mad about volcanoes, but a good man. Very loyal."

"Is there anything we can do?" she asked, though at a loss for what that might be. Unless sitting in a coach all day could be of use somehow, it was unlikely that either she or Luciano were going to be very helpful in the near future.

Her father shook his head. "Not yet, my dear, but take care of yourself. And when you get to Cittanuova, it might be an idea to watch the girl."

"Signorina Vittoria?" asked Luciano. Duke Alvise's ward had also been explained to them before they left.

"Yes," Rodolfo replied. "She may not be significant, but she is clearly in the reading, so that is enough. We can't be sure what she knows."

"If she knows anything," said Arianna, "she'll be on our side, surely. If there even is an _our _side." Duke Alvise was a bit on an unknown quantity, even for Rodolfo and Silvia. The contact that Bellezza had always had with Cittanuova had been limited only to trade, but that was so mutually beneficial that their relations had always been amenable enough. It was not under di Chimici rule in any way, which was also a plus, and, like Bellezza, even had an elected duchy. Rodolfo, however, had Opinions about that, which fully justified the capital 'O'. He also had Suspicions.

Right now, it seemed, he had Concerns. "She has lived as a Niandori principessa for a long time," he said sadly. "I doubt even Germano knows her any more. You must be careful."

"Of course," said Luciano.

"Aren't we always?" said Arianna.

Rodolfo gave them a pained look and terminated the conversation.

"You know what," she said playfully as Luciano recovered the mirror. "I don't think he trusts us."

He laughed but then stopped short. "Oh my God," he said weakly, pointing out of the window.

At the look on his face, she stopped smiling. "What?" she asked, twisting around.

"Dragon!"


	7. The Strangest Girl

**Another quick update, yay! Although I'm back at college tomorrow so things might get a bit slower then. Unfortunately, I've chosen a month before my exams to finally get my arse in gear with this so I can't promise that there won't be another big delay. However, I'll keep it up for as long as I can and once I get my mega summer holiday I'll be writing a lot more.**

**Also, I apologise that the story isn't moving fast. I haven't used fanfiction net before so I don't know what people'll be expecting. Basically, I have a very detailed plan that covers about three months in Talia. So I'm aiming for producing something book-length even if not book-quality - that's why we're still in an introductory place.**

**Finally, I've read but don't own the last two books and I'd appreciate someone clarifying something for me: is there any mention of Francesca being pregnant at all? It's not important plotwise but I like to get the details right. Thanks.**

Getting out of the palazzo had been easier than usual. Everyone was so preoccupied down in the courtyard and outside in the Piazza del Elezione that they paid no attention to one more scurrying figure in an old dress. Even if they had, they would have needed to peer hard to make out an identity under her headscarf. And then Doriano had conveniently made an appearance on the balcony and distracted everyone, though the sight of him had made Vittoria panic a bit. But, she thought as she calmed herself, he couldn't possibly have recognised her from up there.

And now she was by the harbour, which was often her first place of call when she got out on her own. Maybe it was the energy of the place, or perhaps the fond memories of watching the ships come and go with her father, but Vittoria retained a soft spot for Cittanuova's harbour. Today, however, she wasn't looking at the ships. Today, she was staring at a strange girl.

She really was very strange. Her clothes – well, her they must be her _underclothes_ – were odd, even if you ignored the fact that she was roaming the street in her undergarments in the first place. She wandered over the road, not paying enough attention to the traffic and then jumping several times as carts swerved to avoid her. One of the drivers swore loudly at a near miss, but it didn't seem to bother the girl. She was in a world of her own. And then she looked up at Vittoria, right into her eyes.

All she could do was look back guiltily, because she didn't see strangeness there. She saw a trace of bemusement, a touch of confusion, but, beneath that, a penetrating sharpness that told her this was no lunatic. The girl was still staring at her, so she smiled and beckoned her over, side-stepping into a gap between two buildings. To Vittoria's satisfaction, the girl came towards her, even managing to avoid the carts on the way over. "Good morning," she said with false brightness, wondering what on earth she was doing.

"Good morning," said the girl uncertainly, "are you going to tell me where I am?"

It was the most bizarre question she'd ever heard. The girl's lips curved into a kind of half smile as she said it, as though she were repressing some private joke. "We're by the harbour," Vittoria said softly, as she might have spoken to a child had she known any. "Do you see the ships?" She moved to the side slightly, blocking the girl from the suspicious gaze of the street.

If she didn't know better, she could have sworn that the girl rolled her eyes. "Yes, I see the ships."

Feeling like a patronising idiot, Vittoria tried another question. "What's your name?"

"Helen," said the girl.

"Elena," repeated Vittoria. "Well, Elena, do you know where you're going?"

Elena shook her head. "I was just going to have a look around." She paused for a second. "I don't suppose you could tell me what year this is?"

Vittoria's list of 'strangest questions she'd ever heard' was growing by the minute. "Fifteen eighty," she replied, and thought she saw a flash of satisfaction in the other girl's eye. "What year did you think it was?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her more gentle approach.

"Oh, I thought somewhere between the fourteen and sixteen hundreds," she said triumphantly, then frowned. "I'm sorry, I didn't ask your name. Dreaming-me must not be as polite as conscious-me."

"It's Ofelia," she lied, "and did you just say 'dreaming'?"

"Like in Shakespeare?"

"Pardon?"

"Ophelia. Oh, never mind," she said, and then, "Yes, dreaming. Though I've got to admit, I've never felt more awake."

Vittoria tried to run a hand through her hair, but realised she still had the headscarf on. She tugged at that anxiously instead. _Fourteen and sixteen hundreds? Shakespeare? Dreaming?_ There was something more than strange about Elena, and she had no idea what to make of her. She wondered if it had been a good idea to take her into the mouth of the alley and out of the sight of the rest of the street. Then again, she really did not seem like a dangerous lunatic. Vittoria decided to tackle what appeared to be the most prominent problem first. "You're awake," she said, "and this place is real, I live here. You're real too – look." She grabbed the girl's hand and dug her nails in. The skin underneath went white and, when Elena snatched it away, she had two small crescents marked on her palm.

"Ow!"

"See?" she said triumphantly, "Real."

Elena, however, shook her head. "That only works in movies. I've had dreams recently where someone was there... and they couldn't be there. So I knew I had to be dreaming but I gave myself a good pinch and I still thought I felt it at the time." Her face fell and she went quiet, as though a dark thought had passed suddenly by.

Vittoria didn't know what to say, so she asked, "What's a movie?"

"Oh god. Never mind." She rubbed her hand. "Besides, there was no need for that. My knee hurts anyway, I just fell on it."

"Sorry," said Vittoria, at a loss for how to prove Elena's reality to her. Not that she seemed unhappy with her self-proclaimed dream state. "Well whether I'm a figment of your imagination or not," she said, "you still ought to put some clothes on. I can't stand here hiding you all day."

"Is that what you're doing?" Elena asked and, when Vittoria nodded, she peered out from behind her human shield to take another look at the street. Where they were standing was discreet and out of the way but, once they left it, Elena was certain to start attracting attention again. "Where can we get me something to wear?" she asked.

Vittoria pointed down the road to their left. "A few streets down they sell cloths and clothes," she said, "but I'm afraid I don't have any money on me." She had a feeling that she technically had an allowance of some kind, but it never reached her pockets – at least not in the form of something spendable. Things were bought for Vittoria, and a great many things at that, but she had no money of her own. Duke Alvise would never give his ward any silver coins, lest she do something imprudent with them. Like, for instance, running around the city alone and buying dresses for confused, half-naked young women.

"I don't have any money either," said Elena, "I'm sorry, but I don't have _anything_." For the first time, Vittoria thought she detected a trace of stress in the girl's voice.

"That's okay," she said, "I'll sort something out, just come with me." She'd have to try bargaining with someone. If worst came to worst, she could always try to bring Elena back to the palazzo, risky though that would be. She was not planning to divulge her living situation any time soon. It didn't do to promote that kind of thing when you were alone in the city, which was why quite a lot of commoners in the lower town were under the impression they had once met a well-spoken, mysterious young girl called Ofelia.

Elena didn't argue and followed her out of the shade and into the street. Vittoria turned to smile reassuringly at her, but instead her eyes widened and she inhaled sharply. Elena looked back at her in alarm. "What?" she asked worriedly.

"You have no shadow," Vittoria replied with wonder, staring at the sunny stone cobbles by Elena's feet. All of a sudden, it was an incredible day. All of a sudden, she wasn't bewildered any more. Excitement flooded through her.

"Oh." Said Elena simply, unconcerned. After all, to her mind, this was all a dream."What do you think that means?" she asked as she stared at the ground and pivoted, apparently appreciating her shadowlessness to the full.

"I think it means," said Vittoria, slowly and gleefully, "that you are a Stravagante."

This did not have the impact that she had hoped for. Elena just looked more confused. "What?" she asked again.

She pulled her closer and glanced warily around them. "They're time travellers. Magicians. Scientists," she whispered proudly.

"And it's a good thing?" Elena asked, apparently noticing the change in Vittoria's mood.

"Oh yes." Vittoria replied, taking both of Elena's hands in her own. "My father was one."


End file.
